And he would not have fought him--he would have inquired, if possible, the way back home.
Baree was fully three-quarters of a mile from the windfall when he came to a point where the creek split itself into two channels.

He had but one choice to follow--the stream that flowed a little south and east.
This stream did not run swiftly.

It was not filled with shimmering riffles, and rocks about which the water sang and foamed.

It grew black, like the forest.

It was still and deep.